“That would be why your vocabulary is higher than the average gangster’s,” I tell him. “Except for the word equivocating, of course.”
“Of course,” he agrees.
“I like books, too, obviously. I’m into anything that distracts me from my life.”
“Yes, you mentioned e-readers…” he says.
His eyes still seem distant, like he’s weighing whether or not he should tell me something important to him. I’m not sure what’s on his mind, nor if I should dare press him, not when he’s opening up so freely. I’m scared if I prod too hard he might close right up on me again.
“I really like Rosa,” I tell him. “She reminds me of a punk version of my own sister. Natalia’s so clean-cut, she wouldn’t be caught dead in a leather jumpsuit. And she considers riding a Vespa beneath her.”
He chuckles. “Don’t say that where Rosa can hear you. Unless you want to lose an eye.”
I giggle. “She doesn’t strike me as the aggressive type.”
“No, she’s really not,” he says. “Passive aggressive, though? Absolutely.”
“A lot of people are like that. Me, too, I think.”
“No, you don’t seem afraid of direct confrontation,” he says. “At least when it comes to defying me.”
I laugh at that. “I have defied you a few times, haven’t I?”
With that, our conversation fizzles out. I look at him hopefully, and while I can see desire in his eyes, it still competes with something else.
I decide to wait for him to make up his mind. If he wants to talk, he will. If he doesn’t, he won’t.
Finally, he tells me: “There’s one brother I haven’t told you about.” He swallows hard, and looks at the wall next to my head, unable to hold my eye. “The best brother. The one who was the kindest, most generous, loving. He was always helping people, even those he didn’t know. Giving up his precious time, which he had so little of.” Tears come to his eyes, and his lower lip quivers. He’s struggling to keep it together, and my heart goes out to him.
I reach out, grip his hand in mine. He squeezes back. It seems to give him the strength to go on. He blinks away the tears.
“I was driving him to a party one day. The vehicle got T-Boned. I have no memory of what happened. One moment we were singing and laughing in the car, the next, I wake up in a hospital bed, unable to walk, with Luciano telling me he’s gone. Matteo. Gone. Because of me. It was my fault. I was driving. I was responsible. I was the one who insisted that he go out that day. I killed him. Oh sure, another driver ran a red light, but that’s normal in Sicily, where the rules of the road are optional. I should have been expecting it, should have been more careful, but I wasn’t.”
I stare at him, shocked by this revelation. His grip on my hand is tighter than ever, as if by letting go he’d lose himself, falling into the depths of depression. Like I’m the only lifeline he has as he teeters above the abyss.
“It broke me,” he continues. “Especially coming only a few months after I lost you. I hated the world for so long. Blaming everyone who wasn’t an immediate family member. I lived in perpetual darkness. But then… finally… I met you again, and you showed me there’s still some light left in the world.”
It breaks my heart. In that moment he’s not a mobster, not a kidnapper, not even a man. But the boy I knew eight years ago. A boy who has lost his way because of events beyond his control. First, what my father did to him, and now this.
“I’m so sorry, Massimo,” I tell him. “I had no idea.” I’m also ashamed because I don’t remember Matteo at all. I don’t think he was ever there when I hung out with Massimo and some of his other brothers.
Finally Massimo meets my eyes again, and nods slowly. His face still seems pained, but his eyes are less haunted, I think. And his shoulders have slumped a little, as if he’s no longer bearing as great a burden. He needed to get that off his chest.
I think of the scars criss-crossing his ribcage. He said he got them in a car accident. Now I know which one. The physical scars were bad enough: I can only imagine the mental scarring.
Yes, the boy I knew is still there, just buried underneath the layers of scar tissue.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” I tell him. “You didn’t have to.”
He shakes his head fervently. “No, I did. I needed you to know. I wanted you to understand why I’ve changed so much.”
I squeeze his hand tighter. “You haven’t changed as much as you imagine. You’re still there. You’ve just built up defenses to keep people out. To protect yourself. Because you don’t want to get hurt again.”
“I suppose you could look at it like that,” he says. “Losing you, then Matteo… it hardened me. Taught me not to let anyone else get close to me. Because the pain of loss isn’t worth it.”
“Life is full of pain,” I agree. “But also…” I want to say pleasure, but I wonder if it’s too soon to steer the conversation this way. I don’t want to seem disrespectful. Still, I think it’ll cheer him up. So I decide to go for it. “Pleasure.”
He looks at me, and I’m relieved when his expression becomes naughty. I made the right choice.
